


Fool That I Was

by urcool91



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark Backstories, Depression, Gen, Past Suicide Attempt, Post Episode: s04e06 Yverdon-les-Bains, Self-Hatred, Triggers all over the damn place, falling off the wagon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urcool91/pseuds/urcool91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life was a game he won every time, and this was a time.</p><p>He didn't win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool That I Was

Douglas always thought of himself as invincible. He was a bit immature that way,  had never gotten over the nieve assumption that no matter what he did, he would undoubtedly come out on top. Life was a game he won every time, and this was a time.

He didn't win.

Sobriety had been the latest round, and thus far he had triumphed over every obstacle, even the ones he hadn't foreseen (Helena). He had thought himself safe from every blow after that little shock, and, just like with the kimonos, he became lax, comfortable in his position of greatness. He had never expected something like this would happen now that he was on top, now that he had playfully wrestled his demons to the back corners of his mind. 

Perhaps he should learn from his mistakes. Perhaps he should be professional. Perhaps it was time to put away his childish games and admit that he had never won them, ever.

Well, that wasn't completely true. He had won early on. He had become a pilot and quickly skipped from goal to goal with all the ease and irreverence of a fool. He had married, had a daughter, become a successful, well-paid captain. The game of his life, for all intents and purposes, had ended. He was set, so of course he became bored.

The smuggling had started off as a lark, a fun little mini-game,  inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But slowly, like a black hole in an asteroid belt, the small distraction took over his life to the point where it was the game in its own right. It was the first game in his life that he managed to lose and the first time he realized that the games were not separate, isolated affairs. They tangled with each other, and when one was lost so were all the others.

That was the reason he decided to destroy the games with liquor. He went into pubs afternoons and left at closing time in the early morning. His second wife was a bartender at his favorite pub. They married in June and were divorced by January. He had gone from caring too much about the games to not giving a damn about anything. 

It was Helena who pulled him out of it. Helena and his failing liver, though the two were not mutually exclusive. She was, after all, the doctor who told him that if he didn't get sober he would almost certainly die within the next two years. She was also the one who was always too beautiful and wonderful and damn nice for Douglas's own good.

Suddenly he had a reason to continue, to create a new game. At first his goal was just to get her, in any way he could. Then, as time went on and they married, the goal, the game, was to keep her with him. It was a mistake to idolize her like he did. It made her betrayal a thousand times worse.

He got sober for her. He got a horrible job for her. He kept his smuggling down to a mild roar for her. And, despite all this, he still wasn't good enough.  He couldn't reach her heights. Though she had been the one to cheat,  he knew who was to blame for their marriage disintegrating.

After that, sobriety became the game itself. Douglas had actually congratulated himself on staying sober after Helena left, but now it was painfully clear that he had never been on top of his demons. They had been evenly matched after Helena, with his only good cards MJN Air and his colleagues. And now there was no point. He had to fold.

Looking at the whiskey sitting in front of him, Douglas could find very little reason to try for another round with sobriety. His trump cards were always shakey, sometimes imaginary. The worst of it was that he wasn't even unhappy about losing the game. Bitter, perhaps, but not unhappy.

After all, this was the  _good_ ending. Martin got a paid job at a fancy airline near his royal girlfriend. Carolyn would move in with her soon-to-be husband, and Arthur would have a father worthy of the name. GERTI would get sold to an insanely rich man who would fly her and give her some overdue repairs. The only downside was him, and who would be sad for a sky god who squandered his glory days and was just now about to fall off the wagon?

Oh, there would be people, perhaps. People like his first wife, Hannah, who love and love but rightly love another too much to endanger them. People like Verity, who barely see him so don't realize how disappointed they should be. People like Helena, angelic Helena, who work at a project until they think it's finished and then leave for better things. He was a bit like that, in fact, playing a game until he thinks he's mastered it then going on autopilot. Unfortunately for him, there are always mountains. 

Or perhaps he's just the mountain, he mused,  downing his whiskey and ordering another. He was just as disastrous.

"Douglas, what are you doing here?" Douglas looked up to see Martin weaving through crowded tables to him. His second whiskey was placed on the counter just as Martin sat down on the stool next to his own. Not knowing what to do, Douglas did what was natural in such situations. He drank the whiskey.

"You're drinking," Martin observed.

"A truly astounding deduction, Sherlock," said Douglas. "Why, the petty brains of us mere mortals couldn't hope to reach the heights of your astounding intellect. Yes, I am drinking. In fact, I am positively drunk. What of it?"

"You've been sober for over a decade," said Martin, apparently choosing to ignore Douglas's more sarcastic quips. "You can't fall off the wagon now."

"I can. I just have." Douglas tried to puff out his chest proudly but only succeeded in almost falling off his stool.  Martin had to reach out and steady his first officer.

"Yes, you have," said Martin. "I think you should go home now, sleep it off."

"I can keep going for hours longer than this," Douglas insisted, but he was rather tipsy. And sleepy, which was unusual.

"No, you can't," said Martin. "Come on." Martin lifted Douglas bodily off his stool with far more strength than his wiry body would attest to. Douglas was half-dragged through the busy pub, a string of hurried apologies (Martin's) left behind them. They eventually made their way into the warm June air and Martin's van. After doing Douglas's seatbelt despite his protests to being treated like a child, Martin started the van and began to drive towards Douglas's large, empty house. Douglas,  against his better judgement, began to feel a little guilty.

"Martin?" Damn it, he hadn't meant for it to come out so questioning, so pathetic. If there was one thing Douglas Richardson wasn't supposed to be, it was pathetic.

"Yes?" Martin said tightly. 

""What were you- why were you at a pub, of all places? I never pictured you as the type to..."

"Get drunk for fun? No, I'm usually not. I was just trying to have a night out to celebrate the Swiss Air job."

"Oh," said Douglas. He now felt quite sober and sincerely wished he could sink through the seat, onto the asphalt, and be run over by Martin's van. It would certainly be easier than this. "Well, I'm sorry for interrupting your merriment, but I did tell you I didn't need help. You could have just let me be."

"I'm not upset! Well, maybe a bit, but that's hardly the point. You looked sad, Douglas. No, not sad, depressed, giving up. Whiskey was the last thing you needed."

"It was exactly what I needed. Better than apple juice, at any rate. Were it not for whiskey, I would have given up on God a long time ago."

"Than what was the point, Mr. 'I don't drink' Richardson? If whiskey is so important to you, why did you switch to apple juice in the first place?" This was not a conversation Douglas wanted to be having, now or ever. Martin was asking all the right questions, and Douglas didn't like any of his own answers.

"It was Helena," he said reluctantly. Martin opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it decidedly and simply nodded. "She told me I had two years before my liver gave out. One thing led to another and she went from being my doctor to being my wife."

"Was... that when all this started?" Martin said. 

"I'm not quite that pathetic,  _sir._ " Douglas's attempt at his usual vitriol failed quite horribly. "I can manage by myself."

"Than what do you call this?" Douglas couldn't make sense of it. This wasn't Martin's usual frustration at his erstwhile first officer. Martin was genuinely _pissed off._

"This was nothing. I have control." Never mind that he didn't, never mind that he had just been resolved not to have another round with it, he would not be ceding control to Martin. Not that he could justify his contempt for the idea. After all, despite his bad luck, Martin wasn't the one falling apart.

"Douglas." Douglas jumped,  snapped out of his inner monologue. Martin had pulled the van over to the side of the road and was staring at him very intently.

"Why do you bother?" Douglas said bitterly. "Why can't you just let me be?"

"Because I'm your friend," said Martin. "Besides, I can't have a hungover FO. Safety concern, you know."

"I will be sure to hold off my indiscretions until you're off, then," said Douglas. "Though, for the record, I can handle all aspects of drinking, hangovers included."

"And in two years? Five? Ten?"

"I really don't give a damn. What's the point?" Martin closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again. He reached up and clicked on the overhead light. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he began to roll up the sleeves of his own over-pressed shirt. Douglas's lungs felt ad though they were being squeezed by a vise. A pair of bright, ragged scars shone on Martin's wrists. 

"Oh, Martin," he breathed, "you didn't..."

"I know a thing or two about feeling worthless," Martin said, and Douglas almost threw up. Everything, from Martin's determined pride to his nervous tick of tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, was reevaluated in light of this new, terrifying revelation. 

"But you- you're so-"

"You'd be surprised," said Martin. "It was after my fifth CPL attempt. Thank God I can't get anything right on the first try. I almost tried again after my sixth failed CPL, but a friend talked me out of it." It was as though a different person inhabited Martin's skin. Douglas was incapable of reconciling his prissy, pompous, proud, determined captain with this... this scarred, broken visage.

"God, Martin," said Douglas. "God, I'm so sorry." Martin let his sleeves drop.

"I don't want your pity," he said gently. "I didn't show you them for that. I just... I get it. You can talk to me about it, whatever it is."

"Jesus, Martin," said Douglas. What else was there to say? Now that Douglas knew, there was something in him that rebelled even more against ever letting Martin out of his sight again. But... well, getting a cushy, well-paid job was exactly what was best for Martin. Even thinking about the way Martin lived made Douglas want to shiver. The almost comedic facade was pushed away, leaving a terrifying, bleak truth in its wake. The only reason the facade had survived at all was because Martin made it all look so easy in spite of his whinging. All of his sarcastic, thoughtless quips...

 _The point of that story certainly is that I'm the loser._ Oh but it was. At least Martin had stopped himself, at least he didn't make the same mistakes time and time again. And didn't that make Douglas realize how utterly worthless he was. 

All of a sudden skinny arms were wrapped around him, encasing him. "It's going to be all right," said Martin. "It's okay not to be perfect. You have every right to be unhappy."

"What do you know?" Douglas muttered, but it was working. He was relaxing, held in Martin's arms like a child, trying with all his might not to break down, not now.

"You have the right to cry," said Martin, and Douglas broke. He cried messily into Martin's neat shirt. He cried for his multitude of failures, for everything he had lost that was better off without him.

"I don't want you to go," said Douglas. Martin gave a surprised little noise. "I know, I'm a selfish old bastard. I still don't want you to go."

"It's okay," said Martin. "I don't really want to go either. If van jobs weren't so inconsistent, I would stay." Douglas could feel Martin's rueful smile in his hair. "Life's a bitch, isn't it?" Douglas nodded miserably.

 

 


End file.
